Legacy of the Highlands (6 page)

“Hanged? I’m related to someone who was
hanged?” Will had responded with incredulity, his voice tinged with
excitement.

“Aye lad, he was and without a trial. But
ye’ve chosen well, Mr. Cameron. Yer woman is descended from
Jacobites too. Gillies Mor MacBain’s sword brought down fourteen of
the English at Culloden before he himself was killed. So yer missus
is not simply a Scottish beauty with those lovely green eyes and
reddish hair — ach, yer a lucky lad — she’s the blood kin of bonnie
fighters.”

Alex had had enough of history and told Will,
“I think I’ll browse a bit more and leave the family history lesson
to you,” but Will was so engrossed in the man’s tales that he’d
scarcely noticed that she’d walked away.

The shopkeeper finally introduced himself as
James Mackinnon, which reminded Will to mention that a Scottish
acquaintance named Ewen had recommended the shop and sent regards.
“Ah, so ye’ve met Ewen? He’s a good lad and I’ll have to thank him
for sending you and your beautiful wife my way.” Then he’d leaned
his elbows on the counter and studied Will intently as he resumed
the lesson on Scottish history as it applied to Clan Cameron.

“Ye should know that another of yer clansmen
— John Cameron it was — signed our Declaration of Arbroath back in
1320.”

“That’s my father’s name!” Will had no idea
what Arbroath was, but acted suitably impressed. The proprietor’s
interest in Will seemed to escalate with the mention of John’s
name.

“It’s very likely that you and your Da are
descended from that very John Cameron. Do ye recall your grandda’s
name?”

“Of course. My grandfather was John Cameron
too. What’s the Declaration of Arbroath?” Will had asked. The hook
was firmly planted in his mouth and now all this walking
encyclopedia of Scottish history had to do was reel him in.

Alex couldn’t help but overhear the men’s
conversation in the small, deserted shop and groaned, sure that
Will’s question would set Mackinnon off on yet another tangent. It
was already late afternoon. She was cold, her feet were wet from a
sudden downpour, and she wanted to get back to the cozy bed and
breakfast that was their temporary home. Will, however, showed no
sign of impatience and continued to listen attentively. She sighed
and began to paw through a pile of cashmere sweaters.

“Our Arbroath document is similar to
America’s Declaration of Independence. In fact, it’s said that your
Thomas Jefferson drew inspiration from it for the one he helped
draw up for the colonies.” The jowly man seemed to enjoy
instructing an obviously fascinated American about Scottish
history. “Basically, this letter, signed by clan chieftains at
Arbroath — your John Cameron was one as I said — asked His Holiness
Pope John XXII to persuade the English to leave Scotland in peace.
We dinna like the English here, lad, but no matter how many of them
we killed, they kept coming back.” He’d winked conspiratorially at
Will as he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “We still doona
like them, but we canna kill them any more.” He’d shrugged and
sighed, then continued his story. “The vicious devils didn’t want
peace. They only wanted to conquer us, rape our women, steal our
lands and banish our culture and they succeeded. They have our
land, our culture is fast disappearing and they still rape us, only
now in a more civilized, economic way by taking the lion’s share of
Scotland’s North Sea oil revenue and taxing our blessed whiskey to
death. Ah, but you’re not interested in an old man’s rants,” he’d
finally mumbled.

“Look here lad,” he’d said, directing a
gnarled, arthritic finger at a portion of the document. “See what
they asked the Pope?”

“
May it please you to admonish and exhort the
King of the English, who ought to be satisfied with what belongs to
him…to leave us Scots in peace, to live in this poor little
Scotland…and covet nothing but our own.”

“What happened then?” was all Mackinnon’s
normally articulate audience of one had been able to say.

“Unfortunately, Pope John took eight years to
finally act. Many of us still believe that the English have no
right to Scotland. We should be a free and independent nation. Why
it’s unnatural to be united with your sworn enemy!” His face
reddened with fury as his voice rose. “D’ye ken that I must carry a
passport that says I’m British? I’m a citizen of Scotland, by
Christ!” Mackinnon shook his head in disgust. “I spit on them for
stealing my country!”

“Jeez, what a story,” Will had said.

“Sadly, ‘tis not a tale, lad, and I apologize
for going off like that and taking up so much of your time, but ye
seemed interested.” He’d reached below the counter then and tucked
a rolled-up paper in the bag with the rest of Will’s purchases.

“You’re a good lad and because ye’ve indulged
a lonely old man, I’ve given you a wee gift. Take this copy of the
Declaration of Arbroath home and read it. You must show it to your
Da, too. It’s shameful that he didn’t share your clan’s glorious
history with you so you wouldn’t need to be instructed by a
stranger. Tell him what you’ve learned here today and show this
paper to him. And let him know it’s sent with the compliments of
James Mackinnon for raising a fine, braw son. Do ye promise lad? Do
I have your word?”

“I’ll do it. Of course I will. Thank you Mr.
Mackinnon.” Will extended his hand to the old man who grasped it
tightly in both of his.

“No need for thanks lad. The pleasure’s all
mine. It’s always good to welcome home a fellow Scot. If you’ll be
so kind as to leave your address in the States, I can post a
catalog to you from time to time.”

“Why not?” Will had obligingly provided the
information Mackinnon requested.

Alex placed two cashmere sweaters — one in a
heathery blue for Will and another for her in a shade of amber that
reminded her of whiskey — on the counter. The wily shopkeeper added
them to their tab.

As he did so, Alex eyed a couple of
weathered, wooden plaques on the wall behind him: “Twelve
Highlanders and a bagpipe make a rebellion,” read one; “If ye canna
bite, dinna show your teeth,” the other. Interesting philosophy,
she’d mused. Package in hand, they’d thanked him, he’d thanked
them, and they’d left.

“That was — gosh, interesting is an
understatement Alex. It was awesome. It was almost like that guy
was expecting us so he could teach me about my family’s connection
to Scotland. Or do you think he pulls that same act on everyone to
get them to buy more stuff?”

“Could be.” Alex had assumed the man’s
friendly patter and exaggerated Scottish brogue had as much to do
with entertaining himself on an off-season, rainy afternoon in his
empty shop as it did with any real curiosity about their
ancestry.

As soon as Alex and Will were out of sight,
Mackinnon locked the door and placed a “closed” sign in the shop’s
window. He carefully folded the paper with Will’s address on it and
tucked it into his pants pocket as he headed to the cramped back
room he used as an office. He dialed a number on the black rotary
phone that sat on his desk. The thing still worked and, as a
thrifty Scot, he wouldn’t replace it until it was beyond
repair.

“Himself walked into my shop today,”
Mackinnon had said with satisfaction. The others had thought him
daft when he’d assured them that the son of John Cameron would show
up there one day and now they’d have to eat their words. He didn’t
speak again until the person he’d called paused for breath. “Aye,
I’m certain this lad is Cameron’s son. I said I’m certain, didn’t
I?” Mackinnon had responded irritably. “Why he’s the spit of the
photo we have. He said he’s from Boston and brought regards from
Ewen. What more do ye need? Yes, yes, I gave him the paper and told
him to give it to his Da. He promised he would and I believe him.”
Mackinnon continued to listen, nodding occasionally. “Aye, of
course it can be arranged. The usual place?”

As Will and Alex walked back to their B & B,
he’d draped an arm across her shoulders and began to stroke her
neck. His touch was light, but it made her skin tingle. And while
her stomach said otherwise, she no longer wanted food and she
certainly didn’t want to discuss Scottish history. What she’d
desperately wanted at that moment was the man who
exuded...exuded...maleness from every pore in his body.

She’d shifted her head and her lips met his
ear. “I keep visualizing you in a kilt, galloping across a field on
a beautiful black stallion, racing to get home to me.”

“Was I wearing anything under that kilt?”
Will murmured, picking up on her fantasy and making it his own. His
lips spread into a mischievous grin as he lowered his head to give
her earlobe a gentle bite.

“Everyone knows that a real Scot never wears
anything under a kilt, and I’m pretty sure that the bulge in your
jeans would be a lot happier if you had a kilt on. Why, I’d be able
to reach right under and…” she teased.

“God, Alex, have mercy or I may have to drag
you into an alley and tear your clothes off.” Then he shook his
head. “Christ, I sound like one of my barbaric ancestors. I’m
sorry.”

“No need for an apology, my love. The idea
has its appeal, but I think we better wait until we get back to our
room.”

Their suite in the ancient stone manor house
that was now a bed and breakfast contained an immense four-poster
bed and a fireplace, which the landlady thoughtfully left laid.
Will struck a match and the kindling caught. His boyish playfulness
had completely vanished, replaced by a more adult need. His eyes
had met Alex’s and she went to him, slowly skimmed her palms down
his arms and grasped his hands. They knew each other well enough to
realize that this kind of desire wouldn’t be satisfied by tender
lovemaking or an everyday quickie — it could only be relieved by
slow, sweaty, no-holds-barred, breathless, unbridled lust. That
they still desired each other — they were not newlyweds after all —
with such intense passion surprised and thrilled them.

“We should get out of these wet clothes and
warm up in the shower,” Will had murmured hoarsely as his arms came
around her waist. He nuzzled her ear while he began to tease the
bare skin beneath her shirt.

“Mmmm, a hot shower is one of your more
brilliant ideas.” She fleetingly regretted that the soap would wash
away his body’s muskiness — an aphrodisiac in her already aroused
state — but she knew the water’s delicious warmth would feel great
on her chilled skin. They’d quickly stripped off their clothes and
as Will began to soap her body, Alex knew there wasn’t a chance in
hell that she’d be cold again that night. He’d quickly washed
himself, then passed the soap to her as he turned away. “Do my
back, okay?”

She worked the heather-scented bar into a
creamy lather, then slid her hands over the long muscles of his
beautifully formed back. She’d closed her eyes as her hands
continued their downward journey until her hands cupped his firm
ass. He could have posed for Michelangelo’s David, she’d thought
dreamily, but this wasn’t cold marble under her hands. Will held
his breath, waiting, as Alex’s fingers slid ever so slowly toward
the cleft between his cheeks, but before she reached her goal he’d
suddenly turned and grasped her wrist, breaking the spell.

“If you keep doing thaaaat,” he’d dragged the
word out quietly, “I’m going to come right now and I don’t want to
do that until later, much later.” He’d bent to kiss her and her
mouth opened to welcome him. His erection brushed her thigh as he’d
deepened the kiss while his fingers tormented her, working their
magic as they moved in lazy circles. They’d only begun and Will was
already driving her mad. Alex was beyond restraint and started to
wrap her legs around his waist when he abruptly drew away, his
breath ragged as he tried to regain control. “I want you. Oh,
Christ, I want you, but not quickly. I want to tease you and make
you scream.”

“I’m ready to scream now,” she’d moaned.

“Me too, but we’ve got all night.”

The sun’s glare woke them just a few hours after
they’d exhausted themselves.

“Shhh…go back to sleep,” Alex had mumbled as
Will stirred.

“Can’t. Gotta pee. Then I need food,” he’d
whispered groggily as he untangled his limbs from hers.

She’d yawned loudly and opened one eye to
watch him walk across the room. The desire his naked body provoked
was set aside as her empty stomach growled.

The previous night’s activity had made them
grateful for the bounty of Scottish breakfasts. Their cheerful
hostess may have been old enough to be Will’s granny, but that
hadn’t stopped her from flirting with him each time she’d pop out
of the kitchen to the breakfast room with another course.

“You’re a big, braw lad,” she’d commented,
taken by his size, good looks and easy charm. “And ye have the
hearty appetite of a Highlander, Mr. Cameron…if ye don’t mind me
saying so,” she’d added, with a wink and a slight curtsy. “Eat up,
eat up. I enjoy a man who knows how to satisfy his hunger,” she’d
said as she aimed a knowing glance at Alex.

It was obvious that the name Cameron meant
something in this part of the world, and Will had lapped it up. “I
bet our hostess was visualizing you in a kilt the same way I did,”
Alex teased as they’d walked off their breakfast and he’d laughed.
“Maybe I’ll have to buy one,” he’d grinned, “so we can play
Highlander and ravished lass when we get home.”

Alex fought to keep her eyes closed. She knew that
once they opened she’d have to face the grim reality that she was
alone on a beach in Florida and not in the Highlands with Will. The
drugged dream — or vision or whatever it was —made her believe
she’d somehow lived their Inverness vacation all over again. Her
impulse was to try to conjure the mirage back, but it was already
dusk and a chill had replaced the day’s heat. She wrapped a large
towel around her goose bump-studded arms and hurried up the lighted
path to the sanctuary of the house.